


1.1: Libertas Inaestimabilis Res Est

by sortofapenny



Series: President America [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), West Wing AU - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Politics, West Wing AU, West Wing/MCU fusion, canon character death, past alcohol abuse, past drug abuse, past emotional abuse, warnings updated as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sortofapenny/pseuds/sortofapenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's mouthed off on national televison [again], Bruce is on the no-fly list, the President has a broken leg and Nat may have slept with the enemy, accidentally on purpose. It's a Monday morning in the White House of the Rogers Administration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1.1: Libertas Inaestimabilis Res Est

**Author's Note:**

> For Ink. 
> 
> Thank you to Bones, Spork, Milo, Amberly, and everyone that has shown an interest in President America since it's inception almost a year ago. Your support the last nine months has been amazing, and I can't thank you all enough.
> 
> ETA: forgot to mention, this is a West Wing AU with MCU characters and a few other Marvel characters popping up from time to time. Plot and dialogue is heavily influenced or outright borrowed from the West Wing and the Marvel movies and comics.

“One martini, one ginger ale.” The bartender set down two glasses on the mahogany bar top. Natasha nodded a thanks as she grabbed her drink.  
“Why is it that you never drink?” Her blonde companion asked, stirring the martini before popping an olive in her mouth.  
“I do drink.” Natasha demurred.  
“Not with me.” Christine replied, eating the second olive right off the spear  
Natasha hid the quirk of her lips behind her ginger ale as she let the low chatter of the bar flow around her.  
“Why is that?”  
“You’re entertaining enough without the addition of alcohol.” Natasha remarked. Christine scoffed.  
“That’s sweet, but I doubt it.” Natasha smiled slowly, neither confirming or denying the accusation. Her drinking companion pressed on undeterred. “You don’t drink because you think this is a work thing.”  
“Isn’t it?”  
“I don’t work for any of the news outlets, Nat.”  
“Vanity Fair isn’t a print media?” She raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “They never write any pieces on politicians, or scandals, or rank White House staffers based on their attractiveness?”  
“So you’d drink with me if this weren’t a work thing.” Christine smirked, catching Natasha off balance  
“It is a work thing. So ask your question, so I can say no and I can go on with my night.” Natasha leaned back against the bar, sipping on her ginger ale. Everhart set the martini aside, leaning closer to Natasha.  
“I won’t breathe a word on my source. Deep background. It would never come back to you.” She said rapidfire.  
“You’re not coming close to getting a quote, either.” Natasha replied cooly.  
“Then why are we sitting here.”  
“You sat down, Christine.”  
“Is Stark on the way out?” Natasha shook her head, setting her own glass down.  
“We’re not talking about this, Ms. Everhart.”  
“Then who do I call, who’s willing to be a source?  
“You could try Calvin Coolidge.”  
“Nat-”  
“Anthony Stark isn’t going anywhere, Christine. It’s a non-story.” Natasha interrupted matter of factly.  
“You’re lying now. After that show on Meet the Press this morning?”  
“That hurts me Christine, why would I lie to a reporter?” Natasha tilted her head, eyes twinkling.  
“So,” Christine asked slowly “You have nothing to say?” 

Natasha picked up the ginger ale and smiled.  
“I have nothing to say about work.”

-

The sun rose over the quiet empty streets of Georgetown. Orderly, well maintained townhouses lined the streets. In a few hours, a cavalcade of black sedans would whisk the homeowners away to law offices and lobby firms, Langley and the Capitol. Serious, important people lived in those houses. Power players and king makers. Policy czars and lobbyists.  
People with more letters behind their names than most Ivy League professors. 

People who, frankly, should know how to make a pot of coffee without nearly burning down the kitchen.

"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I ge-," the barista at the counter stumbled over her well-rehearsed greeting, taking in Clint's askew tie and slightly singed hair. "Are you okay, Mr. Barton?"  
“What? No, fine, I’m fine. Need coffee. As much as you can legally give me in the District.”  
“You have some soot or, something, on your nose.”  
“The coffee machine and I had a disagreement and a parting of ways that included some minor smoke damage, a call to the fire department at 4:48 in the morning and a melted filter.”  
“How can you-”  
“Kid. Coffee. Now.” The barista nodded, ringing up the order. Clint tried to sort his face into some semblance of a smile for the girl. It wasn’t her fault his coffee machine was possessed and decided to spit out melted plastic at his face, after all.  
Clint wrapped his hands around the extra large to-go cup like he was praying and savored a sip as his phone tinged. Clint mumbled a quick plea to whatever deity might be listening as he dug it out of his coat pocket.  
“Aw, shit.”

-

“17 across is wrong.” Bucky frowned at the paper.  
“Mr. Barnes?” His housekeeper asked as she poured another cup of coffee for him from the pot.  
“The Times crossword. 17 across is wrong, Renata, can you believe that?” Renata smiled fondly at the indignant expression on his face. He waved the paper in his hand to stress his point. “Do you know how much money they make? How hard is it to hire an editor for the New York Times crossword?”  
“You should call them,” Renata called out as she went back to the kitchen with the coffee pot.  
“I’m gonna!” Bucky answered, tossing the paper down on the dining room table in disgust.  
“After you eat some breakfast,” Renata stressed, walking back into the room with a tray of food. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you left yesterday with an untouched plate.”  
“Thanks.” Bucky nodded at the tray. “And I ate at the office.”  
“When?” Bucky shoved a forkful of french toast into his mouth to avoid her question.  
“I ate!” he protested when she shot him a skeptical look. “What are you, my mother?” Renata narrowed her eyes in mock irritation.  
“Mr. James, you know you need t-” Renata broke off as a phone rang in the other room, playing the chorus of “Star Spangled Man”.  
“I’m not here,” Bucky pleaded as she went into the other room for his cell phone. “I’m in the shower. I’m in Madison. I’m hiking the Appalachian trail.” Bucky put on his best doe eyed expression when Renata returned. “Renata, please. Remember how much you love me.”  
“It’s Phil.” Renata stated, holding out his phone. The pleading look on Bucky’s face immediately dropped as he took the phone. Renata paused for a moment to grab his shoulder reassuringly on her way out of the room.  
“Phil, what’s wrong?”

-  
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, splashing the room with horizontal bands of gold. Legal briefings stacked precariously on top of a partially disassembled server shielded Tony’s face from the beams of light. The television in the corner cast a soft blue light over another stack of memos and crumpled notes scattered around a trashcan filled with empty Thai cartons and cups of green sludge. A framed engineering diploma leaned against the leg of a comfortable looking couch. The couch was also covered with law books and budget reports. Tony slept sprawled across the top of his desk, tv remote still in hand. 

The peace of the office was shattered by the tinny sound of AC/DC blaring from a cell phone. The chorus played for twenty seconds before falling back into silence. Tony slept on undisturbed, head on desk and mouth open. The cell phone rang again, this time with the landline singing backup inches from his ear. Tony shot up straight in his chair, hair askew, his undone tie slipping off his neck in the process. He peeled a crumpled piece of paper off his face as he fumbled for the phones in a daze, finally grabbing the landline.  
“Stark. What’s happening?”

-

“Attention ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our descent into Washington DC in the next few minutes. We’ve received landing instructions from Dulles and should land at approximately 6:18 am, Eastern Standard Time.” The pilot continued to drone on about tray tables and seat belts, cutting the connection to the meditative music that had kept Bruce sane through the eighteen hour flight. Breathing deeply, he pulled the headphone jack out of the onboard entertainment system and grabbed the spare iPod Bucky had thrown at him on his way out of the West Wing on Saturday morning. 

“Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to put your electronics away until we’ve landed.” A flight attendant appeared at his shoulder, as if she had been summoned to his seat by the electrical signal of the iPod. Bruce smiled tiredly at her. Nat always said smiling worked wonders on people.

“I get that, but I really, really, hate flying. I think you’d rather I listen to music while we land.”  
The attendant was unfazed. “Sir, you have to turn it off. You can turn it back on once we’ve turned the seatbelt light off.” 

“You really don’t want that.” Bruce rushed to explain. “I don’t do well in tight, enclosed places with lots of people around. Listening to music helps. I’m on your side on this, trust me.” Bruce smiled again, looking a bit like a tired overgrown puppy.

“You have to turn off the iPod, sir.” The attendant ordered. 

“Lady, look-” Bruce growled.

“Mr. Banner?” Another flight attendant walked down the aisle from the front of the plane. “A message was just patched up to you from the cockpit. ‘Brooklyn in a bike accident, come to the office.” I’m not sure I got that right?” Bruce looked at the second attendant, nonplussed. 

“No, you got that right.” Bruce told her as he queued up the playlist titled ‘Don’t Kill Anyone’. “There people are out to ruin my life.”

“Sir.” The first flight attendant interrupted. “You cannot use-”

“Ma’am, this is my second flight halfway around the world in as many days. I was ordered to go onto a vacation, only to get four miles from the airport in Dehli before I was flagged down by the Indian Army with a message that was patched through four separate security agencies to a sat phone telling me to turn around because my friend, one of the smartest people on the planet, decided to mouth off to someone who makes cobras look charming on national television after I expressly told him not too and now I’m on my way back to the hellhole that is Beltway politics to talk religious tolerance with people who want to resurrect the Inquisition. I’m tired, I’m cranky, I have no idea what time it is and my body still thinks it’s in New Dehli. Let. Me. Play. My. Music.” Bruce exclaimed. “Please.”

The attendant looked at him, expression inscrutable. “You can turn it on when we land, sir.””

-

“I want your bathroom.” Natasha said, toweling off her hair as she walked back into the bedroom. Christine, still in bed, rolled over and grinned.  
“I know. It’s the best thing about the apartment.”  
“It’s gorgeous. And the water pressure is fantastic.” Natasha hung the towel on the back of the door and walked over to the vanity where her clothes laid in a pile. “So I was thinking, my briefing isn’t till 9, and I’m starving. There’s this diner Clint goes to all the time, the food’s horrible for you and tastes amazing.” She shrugged into her bra and hooked the clasps absently, focused more on Christine’s reaction.

“You aren’t afraid of people seeing you with an evil reporter?” Christine teased.  
“You clearly don’t know where Clint goes on his off time. No one will recognize us, or care.”  
“Sounds great. I haven’t had a terrible breakfast in a while. Oh!” Christine twisted around, grabbing two phones off the nightstand. “Your phone, you got a message. I thought it was mine. I’m pretty sure I didn’t delete it, but I memorized it just in case.” She handed the phone to Natasha, motioning her to turn around so Christine could zip her into her dress. “Something about Brooklyn driving into a tree?”  
“Memorized it, hmm?” Natasha murmured as she unlocked the phone and pulled up Bucky’s message. “‘Brooklyn drove into a tree. Minor injuries.’ Okay, I need to raincheck on breakfast.” Nat turned around and frowned slightly. “I know that looks bad.”  
Christine cocked her head, trying to get a read on Natasha. “A little bad, yes.”

“I do want breakfast. But I have to go in for this. You’re in town for good now, right?”  
“Yeah, for a while.”  
“I”ll call you then.” Christine raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Really.” Natasha stressed. “You’re possibly the only reporter in the country I can stand.”  
Christine laughed. “Okay. But seriously, some kid named Brooklyn ran into a tree and they need the White House Press Secretary to handle it?”  
“Yep.” Natasha slipped her heels on, grabbed her coat and bag and kissed Christine. “And it’s not some kid, it’s a codename.” Natasha walked out of the bedroom and down the hall to the door. Christine paused, momentarily in shock, then  
“Shit!” Christine leapt off the bed and ran into the hall. “Natasha, whose codename?”  
Nat paused at the open door and turned back to Christine, smirking.  
“The President of the United States. I’ll call you!” She sang out, shutting the door on Christine’s shocked expression.


End file.
